A Totally Worthwhile Risk - 3

JOURNAL ENTRY

25^th April, Friday.

“Down in the engine bay
De-rusting for painting.

I am once more a clumsy adolescent.
My feet grow too large and my knees
and elbows get in the way.
I no longer can bend as I once did.

The march of time becomes visible
In both the engine and my body.
The engine gathers grime
I gather aches.

From time to time, we both groan.”

[MUSIC]

WELCOME

An ancient moon is on the wane. Even the moon and our night have their times of Tenebrae and share the cycle of an older triduum sacrum. There is the dying and then once more the time of re-birth. The rising of a new light to guide our feet through the dark night shadows.

This is the narrowboat Erica narrowcasting into the hushed stillness of an April night, to you wherever you are.

Thank you so much for coming. It is lovely to see you and I was hoping you’d be here. The kettle is singing on the hob, the biscuit barrel is full, I have kept a seat free just for you, so come inside and welcome aboard.  

[MUSIC]

NEWS FROM THE MOORINGS  

The blackthorn blossom is pretty much over. The white drifts of almond snow of a few weeks ago are shrunk and browning, like desultory piles of city slush. But almost seamlessly, the snowscapes of hawthorn blossom take over the hedgerows. Here, still tiny tight spheres of polystyrene white, but soon, very soon, the petals will unfurl under April and May skies of rain, and cloud, and forget-me-not blue. The elder too is waiting, breath-bated, and tightly coiled, by gate and fence posts. It too will spring open in great summer-scented parasols of lace and hover flies.   

Down among the lady’s smock the heron struts with long-legged gait. Clerically clad in chasuble grey and scholar’s stoop. They eye us accusingly as we walk past. Sometimes they untangle themselves in a geometry of angles, wings, neck, and legs, and fly off on deliberate, unhurried, wing strokes. Sometimes they just wait for us to slip back out of their world; an irritating annoyance, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, or the unwelcome clatter of a spooked moorhen thrashing the water and scattering the fry. It is hard not to feel judged by the heron, and to be found wanting.

Along the waterside, the dark, tight little blades of sedges are unfurling, soft and downy. At times, their heads resemble the tails of old rats, scraggles of awkward bristles, waiting to be combed into silvery manes by the wind. And in the sun, the butterflies are out and the air is perfumed with bee hum and nectar.   

Soon the buttercups will be showing. The hill where I walk with Maggie is carpeted, among the sheep-cropped grass, with the feathered green flames of their leaves, hugging the ground, waiting their time. But for now, the rich golden yellows remain the domain of celandine and dandelion. Star-fields of suns, amongst the green.

A baby moorhen hatched this week, and the mallards are hatching too. Although, a number of paired couples are still out and about together. That is not to say that eggs haven’t been laid. Typically, the mother will only sit on them once the entire clutch has been laid. This is the time for them to fatten up, to get as much food as she can to take her through the long 28 days of sitting, to the hatching. Unlike some other birds, like the swan, the drake (the male) does not take his turn to share the incubation duties, or like the crows and rooks bring food to the nesting mother. But then, neither does he abandon her to skedaddle off with the rest of the flighty boys, to cruise and brawl and catch the eye of any unattached (or attached come to that) female – as some do claim. In my experience, they stick close, guarding, staying close by. During the day, often a few feet away so as not to attract too much attention. A wary companion in the long days of sitting. His soft chunters and chuckles providing a warm aural nest of reassurance and companionship to the female. In the night, sometimes they lie side by side – the drake one cautious eye open all the time.

Her’s is a month long fast, sometimes in distressingly vulnerable sites. The one upside of their sudden decline in numbers, locally, is that there seems to be enough good nesting positions available to them. I have not come across any nests yet, but I know they are there. In truth, I haven’t hunted too hard in case I unwittingly blunder onto one and disturb them. It also means, as boaters, we can breathe a little easier as it is unlikely to come across one having built a nest on the boat which would mean that it becomes illegal for us to move it until all the eggs are hatched and the nest abandoned. Unlikely, but not impossible, so we don’t let a guard down too much!

Right now, in these days before the long sitting, watching the drakes accompany their females tugs at my heart. They seem to know what lies ahead – how important this time of preparation is. Their cocky gaudiness and brash swagger of plumage and gait dissolves into something like the ache of commitment to another that only love can truly evoke. They are quieter, even more attentive to their partner. And it is not just about protecting them from the attentions of another drake – in a community that is not under stress from outside factors, that doesn’t seem to be so much of a problem anyway – even when there are a number of unattached juvenile males. It’s about protecting her from the shadows that cling to this path that awaits her. I throw them a handful of oats and duck food. They swim over together and then he moves behind her, letting her eat her fill. They chatter together, he continues to hang back, circling slowly, drifting on the water. Letting her eat. Only when she has had her fill will he come in and finish off any that is left. If there isn’t, there seems to be no ill-grace, no expressions of begrudgement. There is a bond here, one that goes deeper than sex or reproduction, and certainly beyond that of ownership or rights. A bond that will connect them in a way that is intrinsically emotional and physiological. A seemingly solitary figure, alone, looking a bit at a loss, standing squat-like among the grasses in the haze and hush of spring rain. There’s a sense of on old Zen hermit monk about him as he stands unprotected under the heavens. From time to time shifting from one foot to another. He can hear the seagulls call and magpies rattle. He can sense the cats among the bushes and the foxes lope sly along the margin land. And still, he doesn’t move. There is something that holds him here. Something that ties him – something that will take them both through the dangers of the long sitting.      

[MUSIC]

CABIN CHAT

[MUSIC]

A TOTALLY WORTHWHILE RISK (PART 3)

In the last episode, after an eventful journey, Mum and Dad had arrived safely in Canada and had made their way to Toronto where they hoped to find employment. Their first couple of days posed something of a challenge. Having been told before they had left that jobs in Canada were plentiful, they began to get the impression that this did not seem to be the case. Matters were made bleaker by the realisation that their temporary lodgings, in Mutual Street, were situated in a red-light district and was subjected to regular raids by the Police. They were advised to quickly find alternative accommodation. After scouring the local paper, they soon found an apartment, in a suburb called Mimico, that seemed to fit the bill. With the prospect of a new place to live in front of them, they were ready for a new page to be turned and one that would present a more attractive and hopeful prospect.

In some ways, Mum’s observations of life and cultural attitudes in Canada, throw spotlight as much on Britain in the late 1950s as it does on Canada. Reading them now, I can begin to see how much she and Dad (and others of her generation) must have found it so difficult to come to terms with the huge social and cultural changes that were to sweep across Britain a decade or so later. Changes which even those of my generation were to simply accept as the norm. We really are witnessing here a time of acute cultural change and shifts. 

[READING]

SIGNING OFF

This is the narrowboat Erica signing off for the night and wishing you a very restful and peaceful night. Good night.

WEATHER LOG